


Marks known only to her

by redsnake05



Category: 11th Century CE RPF
Genre: Battlefield, F/M, First Meetings, Mistaken Identity, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:45:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7471392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violence and blood marked both the first and last meetings of Edith Swannesha and Harold Godwinson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marks known only to her

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/gifts).



The height of harvest season meant all hands in the fields - or the stillroom or the mill or anywhere else that industry flourished. A plentiful harvest like this was a chance for a generous reserve should next year be troubled by drought, floods, weevils, civil unrest, illness or any other calamity. There were many; life was fickle. Edith herself had spent the later part of the day in the orchard gathering in her insurance against want and hunger in her people. The shadows were lengthening as she brought her last basket up. 

At the gate between the orchard and the yard, Edith paused. It was temporarily quiet, with the workers going home to their families or chasing the dust from their throats with a beer. She looked with satisfaction at the organised chaos in the yard. Another few weeks and her people would be ready, with barns packed full and cellars well-provided. It was sweet to know that her lands were in good heart, and look forward to a winter of plenty and quiet work for the future.

Passing through the gate, the jingle of a harness made her turn her head. A single horseman rode in, his well-made, brightly coloured cloak attracting attention as much as the expensive leather work of his saddle. Edith was intrigued; she was not expecting visitors, especially handsome young men without escort or announcement, who looked to be already furious about something.

Young Ælf the stableboy came out at the sound of hooves and ran to the horse's head. The man jumped down and shook out his hands before stripping off his serviceable gloves.

"I'm here to see your mistress, Edith Swannesha," he said brusquely. "Where is she?"

The stableboy swallowed and looked at Edith. She stepped forward from the gate. 

"And what business have you with the mistress?" she asked. 

"No business of yours," he said, glancing at her. Edith did not miss the way his eyes lingered on her, but he was swift to turn back to the lad. "Well, boy?" When Young Ælf stammered something incomprehensible, the man cursed. 

"A woman as landowner, employing fools and wenches," he said savagely, turning back to Edith. "Do _you_ know where your mistress is?"

"I couldn't say," she said. "If she has your manners hidden with her though, I can see why you need her urgently."

His eyes blazed with sudden anger and he took a step closer. 

 

"I didn't come here to bandy words with a wench from the fields, though what can I expect from an estate held by some ignorant doxy?"

"When no less a personage than your sun-like self condescends to visit our hedge-tavern, we can do no less than offer your what's fitting - pigswill for a gaudy pig," she replied, starting to get angry too. Whatever ailed this fool, he should know better than to insult her and her people. She didn't hold these lands lightly, and his arrogance infuriated her.

He took another step and his hands shot out to grab her shoulders as if to shake her. Her basket rolled unheeded to one side and Edith could not spare a thought for her fruit as she pulled her cloak pin from the rough linen and jabbed it savagely into the man's chest; he should learn that she would defend what was hers. He howled with pain and thrust her away, knocking her off her feet as he tugged the pin out with a look of murderous rage on his face. 

Edith took a deep breath as the man was grabbed and restrained by a sudden crowd of her men, no doubt attracted by all the noise. She pushed her way through them without ceremony and stood in front of the struggling man. She took the pin back from one of her servants and wiped it on her cloak.

"Be silent," she said. It took some time, but eventually her household was quiet around her. She walked around the man and he turned as she moved; he was quiet now, breathing hard with a spreading stain of blood on his tunic, but no fear. She was still angry, but now in a colder, more deadly way. She loosened the girths on the saddle of his horse, who flickered a nervous ear and stamped uneasily after all the shouting, but appeared to be calming under the blandishments of Young Ælf, who still held her head.

Sliding the saddle off, she held it out to the man.

"Edith Swannesha thanks you for the generous gift of this fine horse," she said. "It will be a welcome addition to my estates, peopled with fools and wenches and run by myself, a doxy."

The man glared at her in silent fury, recognising the depths of his mistake, and took the saddle. He didn't attempt to argue. He turned to trudge out of the yard with as much of his dignity intact as he could. Edith dispersed her people to their fires and beer, and sent a couple of her most reliable men after the stranger. It would be foolish not to know what he'd come for, or who he might return with, and best to be prepared against his return with some thought of revenge.

She stroked the horse's neck and took the harness from the Young Ælf with a grateful smile. She hoped prudence wouldn't require her to return the horse.

>>>>

Edith found a cold, still part of herself underneath the rage and the fear. She dismounted from her horse on the edge of the battlefield and let Ælfræd Coltwine take the reins. She found a smile for him; she would have to find a way for him to follow her into exile, assuming they both got out of this alive. She let her cloak swing open, the devices for Wessex and England clearly visible, the emblem of the swan woven into the linen for all to see. She wanted no chance for any to mistake why she was here. She would not let her husband's body be tossed into a common grave at the orders of a conniving bastard.

The field was grim and bloody, worse than she'd ever feared. She moved quickly towards the hill she'd been told of, where Harold had stood. Blood soaked into the hem of her dress, but she ignored it. Around her, wounded men were dying quietly, or not, but she looked for only one and pushed the rest of her thoughts away. 

She heard shouting to her left, a braying trumpet, but ignored it. If the Bastard's people wanted to kill her, they could do it. She had little left to fear. The piles of bodies on the hill were larger, more painful than she had considered possible. It was clear that the Bastard's men had left little to chance here. She turned the bodies over herself, uncaring of the blood on her hands and staining the front of her dress. She could not leave this to anyone else.

At last she found it. She recognised the tunic, first, one made of linen she'd spun herself and embroidered with her uneven stitches. It hadn't really been fit for a King, but he'd worn it anyway. She swallowed hard against her need to vomit. That wouldn't help anyone, not herself, not England, and certainly not him. Instead, she ignored the mess of his face and pulled open his tunic instead. 

The rest of his body was smeared in blood and worse, but there, on his breast, was one clean spot. She saw the signs clearly before her eyes clouded. She traced the thin white scar she'd given him on their first meeting. She could clearly remember his inexplicable anger and rudeness; she hadn't realised then that she'd left a scar. She'd been so angry, and it had taken several, more conciliatory and apologetic visits, before she'd thawed enough to accept his courtship.

Her fingers shook slightly as she moved them up, to rest on the old, blue-black tracery of her name. He'd had it done, the old-fashioned way, when they were handfasted. She'd loved the passion they shared, but appreciated more the way he'd come to respect her shrewd sense and care for the land. 

She opened her hand and pressed her palm flat on the last sign, above both; the heavy, new letters of his final mistress. England. 

She stood and signed for Ælfræd to approach. Together, they heaved the body over her saddle and began the slow walk off the bloody field, holding her dignity high as a standard, always hoping to find something to put aside against the changing of a fickle world.


End file.
